


Something Comforting

by firelord65



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e13 Bring Out Your Dead, F/M, Fix-it fic, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29369736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelord65/pseuds/firelord65
Summary: When Elena is so caught up in surviving moment to moment, she doesn't give herself time to actually stop and process what is going on around her. After Alaric gets attacked, she needs somebody to help stand vigil. After all, there's no guarantee he'll come back this time.(Aka I'm still really bitter over Damon not taking that phone call at the end of Bring Out Your Dead)
Relationships: Elena Gilbert/Damon Salvatore
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Something Comforting

**Author's Note:**

> Like the summary says, I'm super bitter about Damon not taking Elena's call when she had to stab Alaric back in Season Three. So, I got on my bullshit and wrote up this oneshot to shout my feelings into the world about how much better it would be to actually give Elena some catharsis there!

_Cause getting made you want more  
_ _And hoping made you hurt more  
_ _Oh there must be  
_ _Something wrong with me  
_ _And getting made you want more  
_ _And hoping made you hurt more  
_ _Someone tell me  
_ _Something comforting_

\- Something Comforting, Porter Robinson

* * *

Her hands are shaking. She knows it's happening, can see it with her own two eyes, but there's nothing that Elena can seem to do to make it stop.

There's something about the level of ridiculousness. The fact that _this_ is the problem that she's dwelling on and not the cataclysm that has been her life for the past two-plus-years. It's wreaking havoc with her thoughts despite the much larger issues at hand.

She isn't alone, at least, and that might have been a boon if not for the fact that it's Matt next to her staring at Alaric's body in front of them. A part of her - one of the many, because she's compartmentalized everything to the _nth_ degree at this point - is aware that he's staying because he wants to help her. Except he shouldn't have to be here. This is Matt, the quarterback with the perfect, crooked smile that Elena cannot remember the last time that she saw. Matt is here and he's taking her bloody hand in his while he tries to offer some support.

Elena doesn't really process the words. She feels his warm grip on her hand squeeze tight. She wants it to clamp down and keep her from just shaking herself to pieces; but then he's letting go and apologies are dripping like tears because _of all the stupid reasons to need to leave, it's because there are too many servers out tonight to cover the catering that got double booked accidentally_.

She waves him away. That tiny part of her, the one that knows he's not supposed to be worrying about undying history teachers, is glad that he's getting pulled away. He should only be sweating the small stuff like getting called into work way at stupid hours.

This leaves Elena alone. She's used to that in the same way that she's used to the sun rising or the hard edge of early winter that kicks up the last week of November. It's inevitable, a part of the universe at this point. Elena Gilbert will be alone and she will fold in on herself until she's small enough where the pain has nowhere else to go but away. It should be as easy as breathing at this point.

Her hands are still shaking though even as she wraps her arms around her knees and scrunches against the spokes of the stairwell railing. Her phone screen wobbles in the corner of her eye. The light catches her attention, and Elena realizes belatedly that someone's calling her.

The effort to bring her hand up to her face will be herculean and feels, honestly, like a waste of time. Alaric is dead. He'll be fine, maybe, hopefully if _doppelganger_ counts as supernatural in the same way that immortal vampires or cursed werewolves count. It's a question they've never needed the answer to. Elena doesn't want to break from watching for any sign that Alaric will stir. She lets the phone screen fade back to black, and the trembling of her palm blurs in the darkness of the hall.

The worst part about this, she thinks, is that she hasn't even cried. Surely coming home to find the one caretaker left in her life attacked and bleeding out should have elicited something more than a systemic, pragmatic decision to _finish the job_.

The worst part about this is that they can't even get help from the Sheriff that will mean anything because Elena had to use the same goddamn knife to maybe save, maybe condemn Alaric. The assault might not even be reportable if they don't want to wade through ten feet of red tape and half-truths that obscure the justice system in Mystic Falls.

The worst part about this is how Elena feels just a tiny spike of relief at knowing that at the very least Jeremy wasn't here to see this. He's in Denver as the result of a touch more older sister meddling. Ruining his free will is still the preferable choice to worrying that what's happened here tonight could have happened to the only blood relative she has left.

The _actual_ worst part about all of this is how there are so many worst parts. The more that Elena picks them apart, there are still too many to fully process.

Her breathing catches and her throat feels tight. She hiccups and lets out a whimper that is only the forefront of the tears she hadn't been able to find before. Elena pulls her knees closer and wraps her hands tighter around them. Her phone drops in a forgotten clatter. She's too busy concentrating on the panes of Alaric's face in front of her. Getting distracted by something as pointless as crying is a luxury that she cannot afford.

She might have yelled at him to wake up already. She might have been talking herself through these thoughts this whole time. In the darkness of her empty family home, there's no one there to know. Either way she isn't talking now. Her chest heaves in and out as she fights the sisyphean fight to keep from crying here and now.

Focus. Control. Keep it together.

Elena is old enough to take care of herself now, that's what Alaric told her. Right before he tried to walk away. She should have let him walk away, right? That's what tonight was teaching her. Being under this roof was a curse, and Elena had doomed him for the sake of her own pathetic hope of feeling safe.

Her lip burns between her teeth, and she lets go to keep from breaking through the skin there. Elena feels the pinpricks in the corners of her eyes spill over.

At least it gives her something to do with her hands, something to focus on which strangely does help with the shaking. There's an idle part of her that worries about smearing the blood all over her face. She rubs at her eyes with the heel of one palm before finally forcing herself to stand. It's just a half dozen steps into her bathroom where she can run the water and soak a hand towel. It's become a Gilbert skill to know how to scrub away dried blood.

Elena wipes at her face first to clean away the tears and the transferred blood. She examines herself in the mirror, observing in a way that feels like she's looking at someone else. The Elena in the mirror is puffy eyed but there isn't any more blood on her face. Progress. Next Elena turns the water to scalding and lathers her hands and the towel with soap.

It hurts, the sheer heat of the water, and it's a grounding sort of pain. Elena can focus better. She can tell that she's rubbing at the flaking blood and smeared patterns on her own skin, not on that doppelganger in the reflection.

The sink is running hot enough to scald, hot enough to fog up the room. Elena chews on her lip as she rinses off her hands one final time. There's a line of blood in the bed of her nails right where she can't get it off. The metal hook at the end of her nail file can clean that up easier. The Gilbert system at work.

"Elena?" She barely hears the voice over the sound of the still running water, but she starts regardless. Her feet carry her back into the hall. She's trying so damn hard not to hope because hoping is too premature. It's barely been twenty minutes and _didn't Damon say that it took hours the last time to bring Ric back?_

His body hasn't moved from where it's slumped against the doorframe. Elena cups her hand over her mouth and chokes back whatever sound of frustration that is fighting to escape. Hope is a dangerous thing to have. She should know better by now.

There is a creak though, the tell-tale swing of the front door closing, and Elena sags against the open bathroom door. She wasn't hallucinating - small victories. There is someone else here now. She hears her name called once more. Placing the voice is tricky. Thankfully its owner speeds up the stairs at supernatural pace and now there's Damon holding her by her elbows, keeping her steady on her feet.

"Hey, hey, hey," he repeats soothingly. "Easy there."

Elena gestures helplessly with the bloodstained towel into the hall. "I didn't know what to do," she manages to croak. Admitting it is freeing. She had to be so strong when Matt was here; human Matt who can't help but be a step behind the rest of them when it comes to dealing with all this chaos. Just like human Elena.

Damon grimaces just before he brings his attention back to Elena. His steely blue eyes are the only thing not wavering in her vision. The steam from the sink is messing with her. Or maybe just the remaining unshed tears are.

"It's going to be okay," he says and Elena has to believe him. No matter what she needs something to hope for, right?

The sink gets turned off and Elena finds herself back next to Alaric with her knees folded under her this time. She can't stop herself from trying to move Alaric's hair back into place with a gentle touch. At least his face doesn't have blood on it.

Damon crouches next to her, that unreadable expression back on his pursed lips. He takes in the knife wounds on Alaric's chest, the blood pool that has already dried on the edges on the floor, and Elena trying to hold herself together with hardly more than a prayer.

"You did the right thing," he says. Elena leans further against the wall. Shutting her eyes only shuts out the horrifying sight in front of her, not the guilt and anxiety still waging war in her overrun thoughts.

She makes herself open them again, though they end up on the ceiling rather than continuing to dwell on Alaric. "It doesn't feel like I did," Elena admits. When she pulls her eyes back down, Damon hasn't moved but his attention is on her alone.

"It'll be okay," he repeats from before.

He tips his head, insistent and silent until Elena concedes with a nod. Then he nods as well. "Good. We're on the same page."

It's strange - a good kind of strange - how much Elena isn't surprised by the relief that has come from Damon showing up. She has been relying on him more and more. And he has been showing up, for the most part. "You didn't answer me when I called before," she blurts out. In the grand scheme of things this doesn't matter. Hell, if he had answered Elena wasn't certain that she would have even known what to say. _Come help, I might have killed Alaric for real?_

"I didn't," he says in acknowledgement. He swallows, the motion standing out especially with how he looks down at his hands. Damon doesn't show being conflicted. It isn't in his nature, at least not with anyone else. Elena holds off for just a few seconds longer to see if he'll say anything more.

Damon rubs his palms together and exhales slowly. "Got a text from the wonder bread quarterback. He said things were bad. Figured that was my cue," he says.

Elena turns her attention back to Alaric's silent body. "You didn't have to come. I know you were trying to figure out the coffin stuff."

Damon snorts. "Stefan can handle it for a few hours. Doesn't take two people to check in on some witches in a vampire-proof cave. I'm just…" He trails off and his forehead furrows once again. There's a pause after which he suddenly shifts back to his feet. "We're doing this wrong, you know. Poor guy's gonna come to still in a pool of his own blood, crumpled in a heap? That's hardly fair."

He's still talking like it's gospel truth that Alaric is going to wake up. Elena reaches out but Damon has already hauled Alaric up from the ground. "Wait, Damon," she says. Getting to her feet takes a moment.

"Downstairs or up?" Damon grunts. Elena blinks and falters at answering. "Excellent, I agree. Downstairs _is_ where the whiskey is."

He doesn't need her help bringing the dead weight of Alaric's body downstairs. Elena trails behind him, still feeling a bit foggy and delayed. There's another grunt before Damon more or less dumps Alaric onto the couch. "What's with the lights anyway?" he asks.

Elena shakes her head. Once she and Matt had noticed the blood, they hadn't really bothered to look into the breakers. She hadn't noticed the darkness during her vigil. It hadn't even registered as a possible priority. Damon lifts an eyebrow and makes a halfhearted attempt to wipe off a streak of blood that had transferred to his t-shirt. It's probably the least concerning casualty in the house. Elena hasn't even looked at her own clothes, not even when she was in the bathroom.

"I'm on it," Damon says before disappearing from the living room. Elena nods to the empty room and sinks onto the coffee table. There's a part of her that still doesn't want to leave Alaric on his own. With Damon here, at least she can relax her spine a few centimeters. Damon won't miss it if he wakes up.

 _When. When Alaric wakes up_.

The lights hum when the power kicks back in. Elena squints from the sudden brightness. If Jenna knew that they had left the house with practically the entire living room lit up… Elena winces from the suckerpunch that comes in the aftershock of the thought. There isn't anyone left to be worried about the electricity bill of all things.

"Better?" Damon's voice calls from elsewhere in the house.

"All good," Elena responds automatically.

He's back in the living room a few seconds later. It's unnecessary, speeding back to a corpse and her but Damon does it anyway. He takes in both of them once more. Between the two of them he apparently decides that Elena is the one that requires attention most because Damon steps to her side next. "Hey," he says softly. One finger tips her face to look up at him.

"Don't," she replies shortly. He lets go, lifting both hands in mock surrender. She doesn't know what exactly she's stopping him from doing, but it still feels too raw to let him do it regardless. Damon nudges her to get off of the coffee table onto an actual chair. It's a matter of inches, metaphorically, getting her to accept that it's alright to not just loom over Alaric. Physically she's still only a few feet away, but it's more than she had been upstairs.

Then Damon steps aside again. Elena thinks first it's a means to give her more space but, no, there's that predictable side of him which meant he was actually rooting around in the cupboards for Alaric's stash as promised. Elena found herself watching him as he finally found a bottle. She shook her head though there was a wry smile that found its way to her lips.

He brings the bottle as well as a pair of tumblers. "He's gonna want that when he wakes up, isn't he?" Elena says. She knows Damon pretty well at this point, so it surprises her when his eyebrow quirks.

"Ric? Yeah, but we've got time. This is for you," he replies. The glass pressed into her hand is cold, though the sensation quickly fades. Elena looks down at the whiskey. She doesn't lift it to her lips like Damon does. He's hovering in front of her.

"What?" Elena says, confused. It's one thing for Damon to indulge in his usual tactics to knock off stress. It's another for him to try and drag her down with him.

Damon puts his already empty glass on the table with a soft clink. He takes up Elena's abandoned position on the coffee table. His knees knock against hers before he puts a hand on one. "You're in shock, Elena, or close enough," Damon insists.

He's right. Of course he's right. Regardless, Elena blinks as his blue eyes are yet again watching her intently.

"I'm worried about Alaric," Elena snaps back. "Shouldn't you be, too? He's your best friend. And I killed him."

Damon scoffs. "So have I. He gets over it, I promise. You need to calm down before that tension wrecks you. You've been sitting alone in a dark house for god knows how long, and when I came in you were practically boiling your hands clean. Take. The drink," he intones.

Elena lifts the tumbler and tips back a mouthful. She winces when it first hits her tongue and swallows a cough. "Happy?" she sputters as she tries to pass the glass back to him. Damon lets out a sigh.

"Just. Keep drinking." He leans back to grab the bottle and his empty glass again. Elena considers snapping at him and thinks better of it. There isn't much in her glass and the idea of a buzz taking the edge off tonight is more enticing than not.

There've been too many rough nights, too many stresses pressing at her temples. Elena grimaces as she pulls another draught. Damon has refilled his glass with a touch more than he'd given herself and him originally. It's still moderation for Damon by a longshot.

"Is this the great plan, then?" Elena can't hold her tongue for too long, not when the only other topic to distract her is the very thing that's tearing her apart at the seams. "Get drunk and pray?"

Damon makes a face. "Now who said anything about prayer?" His knees still have her boxed in, their gentle presence keeping Elena grounded as the liquor starts to tug at her tensed nerves.

He doesn't say much else. There's something oddly comforting about it. When she finishes the liquor in her glass she lifts it for his approval. Silently he gestures with the bottle. "I think I've made enough mistakes for one night. Don't need to add disappointing every parental figure I've ever had to that," Elena replies, coaxing a chuckle out of Damon.

"Every parental figure? Seems like you give yourself too much credit there. Besides, your current role model can't really talk," Damon says. They both look again at the couch. Alaric's unmoving body cuts out the ribbing from Damon's teasing, leaving a sour taste in Elena's mouth that overtakes even the liquor.

"He's doing the best he can," Elena insists. "For us."

Damon lets out a slow breath. "I know."

Isn't that the heart of it all? The fact that Alaric's here under the Gilbert roof at all isn't for his sake at this point. This is a road that Elena has been down before, and she finds that the mental sheen from the whiskey allows her to skirt right past revisiting it. She shakes her head, trying to clear it physically.

"You're gonna go crazy if you just keep sitting here," Damon says, matter-of-fact. Elena tips her head in concession.

"I don't know what else to do, Damon." She expects him to hold up the bottle again. She doesn't expect him to put his own glass down, stand, and extend a hand to her.

"One step at a time. C'mon," he offers.

Elena folds her arms over her chest. "I'm not _leaving_ ," she practically spits.

Damon's hand falls back to his side. "I'm not _making_ you leave," he retorts. "I'm not stupid enough to try. I just figured if we get up and do something it'll keep your mind off the forty thousand worries that are running rampant there."

She swallows her reply, at least the terse one. "Oh." Damon brings his hand back up. It's warm when he pulls her to her feet, and she misses it instantly when he lets go.

He brings his thumb up to brush a strand of hair back into place behind her ear. "I think this house has held enough wakes, don't you? Lets not turn this into another," Damon murmurs.

There's a world of difference even just standing in the living room. When she looks past the couch what stands out the most is how much of a wreck the house is. It hadn't been obvious in the darkness before. With all the lights on it's horrifying.

Going into the kitchen to find a bucket and rags - more Gilbert family cleaning staples - reveals more bloodshed. Elena glances over her shoulder at Damon. There's a part of her that's glad again that this is Damon with her and not his brother. Surely this had to be driving him up the wall, all this dried blood from whatever struggle had gone on between Alaric and his attacker. There isn't any indication on Damon's face though. Just bland disgust.

"Nothing like a little fall cleanup," Damon says dryly. Elena places the bucket in the sink with a heavy handed amount of bleach. It'll take a bit to fill up completely with hot water. She puts the bleach back under the counter, and when she stands back up Damon is collecting shards of a broken coffee mug in the kitchen trash.

Elena's mouth curls in a frown as she takes in the circumstances when Alaric was attacked. There's still half a pot of coffee on the counter and she suspects if she opens the microwave she'll find whatever leftovers Alaric had been heating up to pass for dinner.

He was just. In their home. Living. And he got attacked. It wasn't the first time for the Gilbert house, but Elena still feels a half-dozen stabs of guilt to her gut.

"You don't need to do that," Elena tells Damon. "I've got it."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm going to sit on my hands while you clean up Ric's mess all by yourself. Sure."

"It's fine, really," Elena says. He ignores her as he picks through some abandoned mail on the counter which had been victim to the spilled coffee. "I appreciate you watching out for me, but this isn't your problem."

He chucks out the spread of unread college magazines without remorse, but he considers the white envelopes with more care as he assesses which are bills and which are just junk. He holds one up. "Need a credit card?" Damon ignores her comments entirely.

"Damon," Elena huffs.

He tips his head to the side in an exaggerated motion. " _Elena_ ," he parrots back. The credit card offer goes on top of the magazines in the garbage before he puts the can down. He moves to join Elena on the other side of the island, his hands resting on her shoulders.

"I know it's not my problem, but _I've_ decided to come over and help. So _you_ get to shut up and let it happen."

"Why, though?" Elena can hear the bucket behind her still filling. It'll be a long minute before it's done. She's not exactly sure why she's pushing back so much on Damon's help. Maybe because she's used to doing this part on her own. It doesn't make sense that this time she's got a second pair of hands, another person to keep her from spiraling back to the thoughts that had sunk in upstairs.

Damon at least hasn't given up. "Just because. Does there need to be a reason? Do you really need to make me say it? Just let me help," he says. He holds her gaze in his for a long moment until he's convinced that she's done pushing back. There's a twitch of his lips and he drops his hands back down.

"Unless you really get some weird kick out of scrubbing blood off of walls. Which, if so, I think I can arrange for some further opportunities. Vampires don't tend to stick around for cleanup duty," he teases.

Elena smacks him lightly on the arm as he once again coaxes the start of a smile to her face. She grumbles at him to shut up as she turns off the sink. Filling the bucket too much is going to make it a pain to slog upstairs. She takes the cleaning supplies with a grunt to the second story. Her chest tightens again when she hits the landing and not from the physical exertion.

From behind her, Damon prods her back into motion. She's grateful for the nudge. If she had been alone, she would have lost god knows how long just standing there looking at where she'd found Alaric.

Damon's got a bundle of rags in hand and a second bucket pulled from under the sink. Between the two of them they fall into a rhythm. First is getting the bloodstains wet again. Next is trying to mop up as much up before the rag gets too soaked. Last is final scrubbing with a dry rag at the stubborn edges that didn't want to come up. The worst of the work is where Alaric had been laying; everything else is just smears and some minor damage from the scuffle.

Elena tries not to get irritated as she works at a smaller stain on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. The hardwood miraculously hasn't had the blood sink in yet. Overall, it's… going well.

And that's another problem. This should feel far from normal, from _just another Gilbert house cleanup_. Elena grimaces as she leans down to rewet the rag again. Her back is aching from the constant up and down. "I think we're almost done," Damon offers. "Though I haven't checked the back. I doubt there's anything there though. Looks like Ric just took off upstairs."

Elena nods tightly. The blood on the wall is almost gone. It looks like they might be able to keep from re-painting, though her dad probably had some touch-up paint stashed somewhere if push came to shove. Her train of thought is derailed as Damon waves a hand in front of her.

"Earth to Elena. I asked if you're all set with this." He's pointing to the bucket of gross water at her feet. Elena shakes her head and tosses her rag fitfully into the other one. The wall is as clean as it's going to get. She can tackle it again when it's dry if need be.

"Sorry," she apologizes.

Damon takes the cleaning supplies away with a look that Elena hasn't bothered to decipher. She can see the top of Alaric's head peeking out over the edge of the couch from where she's standing in the entryway. It hasn't moved. _He_ hasn't moved.

The house is clean and there aren't any more distractions. Elena tears her eyes away from the couch and trails belatedly after Damon. At some point - probably one of the times that he had taken the bucket downstairs to empty and refill with fresh bleach solution - he'd finished up in the kitchen as well. She sidles next to him by the sink to scrub her hands one last time. When she takes the towel from the stove and dries them off, she grimaces. There's still the pungent smell of bleach on her. It's better than the coppery scent of blood, so that's some kind of win, she supposes.

Damon tugs the towel out of her grip to dry his hands as well once he's tipped both buckets neatly onto the drying rack. "Feel any better?" he asks.

Elena tries to wring out a smile. It ends up as another grimace. "He still hasn't budged. It's all I can think about now," she admits.

"Alright, alright. It's still only been, what, two hours?" Damon says. He waves away Elena's concern with one hand. "If you're going to go back to sulking, we're going back to drinking."

He walks away to pick up the bottle of whiskey, intent on keeping his word. Elena doesn't miss that he stops to check Alaric's breathing - or lack thereof - briefly. Then he's twitching one finger at Elena and stepping out the front door onto the porch.

"What about Alaric?" she asks. He doesn't answer her. Elena crosses her arms but she ends up leaning against the front door and standing on the porch regardless. "If he wakes up, we're not going to hear him."

Damon is sitting on the porch swing with a refilled glass rolling between his palms. "I'll hear him. And stop saying 'if.' Ric's gonna be just fine," he growls.

"You don't know that for certain."

He doesn't disguise the wince, but he does take another swig of liquor before answering. "No. I don't," Damon replies hotly. His admission takes another weight off of Elena's shoulders even if it shouldn't. She crosses the porch and sinks down on the seat next to him.

"I don't know what I'm going to do if he doesn't wake up," she says. The stillness of the nighttime air closes in around them, a buffer from the rest of the world. Elena doesn't know what time it is exactly, but it's well past midnight. She can feel the exhaustion sitting on her shoulders, sitting behind her eyes. She also knows that she won't be sleeping until she sees that Alaric is okay again.

"Don't say that," Damon retorts. He leans back against the seat finally, bringing the glass to his lips absently.

Elena has her arms crossed still. "I really don't know, Damon. There isn't anyone left."

"Untrue. You are positively swimming in friends and self-righteous, self-sacrificial gestures. I can name three off the top of my head. Wait, four if the quarterback can get his shift switched with someone else."

It doesn't help to be reminded of everyone who is convinced to throw themselves in harm's way for her sake. Elena grimaces and pulls her legs up onto the seat. She leans against Damon and tips her head onto his shoulder. He isn't wearing his leather jacket - that came off when they started cleaning - but he's still warmer than the air. "I don't want to have to rely on them or expect them to put themselves in danger for me, Damon," she murmurs.

She can't see his expression even when she tries. She's too close. She has to guess based on the way that his free hand stops tapping a rhythm on his knee.

"You're tougher than you give yourself credit for," Damon replies. "I'm not saying I _want_ Ric to have kicked the bucket-" He winces as Elena whacks him with the back of her hand at that "-but I think you'd handle it."

"Yeah, right."

It's still nice to hear, like if Damon says it enough then it might be true. Elena chews on her lip as the stillness of the night falls over them once more. There's just the slight sway from the swing controlled by Damon's feet on the ground. Elena's are tucked up next to her. There's the feeling of being in their own little bubble away from everything else.

She's used to that feeling. Ever since their first impromptu road trip to Georgia, Damon has been able to coax Elena into blocking out everything else just for five minutes. Tonight is no exception although it has taken quite some time to get to this point. Elena lets out a sigh that Damon doesn't miss.

"Still not convinced?" he asks.

Elena lifts her head off his shoulder for a moment. It lets her catch the frown that dances across his face which only deepens when she snatches his tumbler from his hand. "Getting there," she concedes. "This'll help."

"Back to disappointing the parental figures of your life?" Damon replies. Elena lifts one shoulder and sinks back onto Damon. It's not as comfortable while she's holding the glass. He nudges her and she thinks at first he's just trying to get his drink back. Instead he lifts his arm up onto the back of the swing and lets her rest more fully onto his chest. If she tips her head up she can just see his eyebrow quirk up in that delightfully smarmy way. He doesn't say anything else, though.

They're walking a fine line, Elena knows. At some point she'll have to address that. For now, she focuses on what he's saying rather than what he's doing.

"I think I've earned it tonight. It's not every day you stab your pseudo guardian to save him from death. Or something," Elena says. She sips the whiskey in small mouthfuls.

"Mmm," Damon hums. "You keep bringing that up." His fingertips brush against hers as he steals the glass and a long draught. Then he returns it, easy as breathing.

Elena frowns. She hadn't meant to, not this time. She had been ready to stay in that little bubble.

"The way I see it - and you can agree or disagree if you'd like, but I tend to think that I've got a pretty good, impartial view on things. The way I see it, you got home and had two choices," Damon says.

"Option one: you and Donovan find him, apply pressure, call 9-1-1, and hope that by the time that Ric makes the long journey from Maple Street to whatever that main drag the hospital is off of that he hasn't croaked. Maybe the EMTs do a good job. Maybe psycho roofie doctor Fell has some freshly stocked vamp blood ready for him. Either way, too many variables." Elena swallows hard as Damon rattles off the considerations in his usual cavalier fashion.

Then he sighs. "Or, option two."

"Stab Alaric and take the chance that the Gilbert ring will do its thing," Elena finishes for him. She has the whiskey between her palms. It's almost empty. One more mouthful sloshes at the bottom.

Damon hums in affirmation. Elena can feel it through her back. "You made the right call," he insists.

"We'll see," is what she thinks. It won't help and will just put her right back into that same spiral. What she blurts out instead is, "Sorry about your shirt."

Under the orange porch light Elena can see tiny splashes where the bleach sloshed and dripped onto Damon. His jeans seem to have escaped most of the damage somehow, or maybe she just can't see where they've taken more of the collateral damage. She pokes at one of the larger bleach marks with her pinky. Damon grunts. "Not the end of the world."

Then he chuckles. His mouth is right next to her ear. "If you're trying to get me to take it off, I'm going to have to valiantly resist your whims, temptress," he teases in a low voice.

Elena smothers a laugh of her own and tries to hide behind the last sip of the whiskey. "I'm not that desperate, Damon," she retorts.

"Mmm, keep telling yourself that. I've seen you looking." There they are again, dancing on that precipice. Elena holds up the glass for him to take rather than respond. He drops the teasing, returning to her original comment. He also tips another splash of whiskey into the glass from the bottle. "I needed to pick up some new clothes anyway. You might not believe it, but I didn't have to replace my wardrobe every six months before coming back to Mystic Falls," he says.

"Didn't have to but still did, right?" Elena replies in kind. She settles further into his chest, taking the tumbler back when he passes it to her.

"I'm sorry, is the girl who dated my brother - prince of the perfect hair - giving me shit about wanting to look nice?"

Elena lifts one shoulder. Her cheeks feel warm as does her chest. The quiet falls between them again. It's the closest she's gotten to feeling relaxed all night. Yes, she's aware of all the dozens of worries in every other portion of her brain, but right here and now she can put them aside to deal with later. For now, she can sit and wait with Damon for when Alaric wakes.


End file.
